


Camembert

by herbailiwick



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Arguing, Communication Failure, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-06
Updated: 2012-10-06
Packaged: 2017-11-15 18:04:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/530131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbailiwick/pseuds/herbailiwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skipthur (Martin/Arthur). Martin is harsh enough with Arthur that Arthur doesn't want to come in for the next flight. Douglas does his best to help fix things.</p><p>First Person (Douglas's) POV. Rated G.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Camembert

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nyatsuma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyatsuma/gifts).



I wasn't particularly interested one way or the other when I asked about the luck Martin had in finding a date the night before. Having stayed up too late enjoying the unexpected company of an old friend I hadn't seen in years, I'd been tireder than usual on the flight, and, just after we'd hit the bar, a headache appeared the likes of which I hadn't been able to imagine away. So unfortunate, when Martin-watching is a favorite hobby of mine.

When I asked, I had expected Martin to boast about a small amount of contact, or a faked number, or even to tell me to buzz off if it had gone  _really_  badly. I excepted anything besides what really ended up happening, which was...more of an explosion, really.

***

"Aww, tough luck, Skip," Arthur said in his consoling way.

"Yes, thank you, Arthur," Martin said, rolling his eyes at Arthur.

"I'd have thought the American women would at least be impressed by your accent," I said. "But I guess that can only go so far." It was a shame, really. I thought he'd been doing rather well by the time I went to bed. Well for him, anyway. But he's spectacularly good at screwing even the best of chances right to hell.

"I don't think bars are your forte, Skip." 

"Not helping, Arthur."

"Sorry, Skip." Arthur's face fell a little, and I swallowed. Arthur was right, of course. Martin really needed time to get to know someone before he felt comfortable around them. Actually, was there anyone in the world Martin Crieff felt truly comfortable with? Perhaps not, but surely prolonged exposure could only help, if the person was genuinely interested in Martin as a human being, in some sort of capacity or another.

"Arthur, it seems about time we should have some coffee, doesn't it?" I suggested. Martin wasn't in the mood for compliments from Arthur. It's strange, but while he's practically gagging for compliments from most people, especially from me, likely one of his very few friends, Martin gets a little tenser and a little more miserable when he's really in need of the compliments but they come from Arthur Shappey. I'd figured it was due to Arthur's level of intellect, if one looks at intellect in the traditional and closed-minded way. And Martin, of course, tends to be both traditional and closed-minded. But was that really it?

"You know," I said after Arthur left, "he has a point about the bars. The casual thing isn't for everyone."

"Right, and like I've got so many  _un_ -casual acquaintances hanging around."

"Well," I said dryly. "We already know Carolyn and Arthur are out, as you've said that to me twice. And then there's me, and I'm not really interested. Sorry."

Martin stared at me with such a confused expression that I felt compelled to add, "That was a joke, Martin. I mean, no, I'm not interested, that bit's actually true, but I was trying to lighten the mood. What about ground staff?" He opened his mouth, and I cut him off. "I'm aware we don't have many women hanging around, but I don't think that's necessarily the end of it. Aren't you interested in men as well?"

Martin closed his mouth with a click as Arthur came in. His eyes begged me to shut up about it, so, for the moment, I did as asked.

"You know, Skip, it's just the nerves that get in your way. Nerves are terrible that way."

I raised an eyebrow. Good old Arthur, underestimating the failings of his fellow man. Sometimes I wish I had that ability. Sometimes I do have it. But not about Martin Crieff.

"It's not just the nerves," muttered Martin. 

"What else can it be?" Arthur said soothingly, holding out the coffee. 

"Oh, I don't know," Martin said snappishly, yanking the coffee away so compulsively that a bit of it sloshed over the side. "Maybe, I don't know, a little thing called  _everything about me_."

"Martin," I said quietly. Surely he couldn't think there was nothing in him that would make him worth dating?

"But you're...you're great, Skip!"

"Do I look like I need Arthur Shappey's glowing approval?" Martin spat. Oh. This wasn't good. Martin was getting more agitated by the second. 

"No, but...but you've got it, if you ever do," Arthur said, frowning in confusion.

"He's only trying to help," I pointed out. "Give him a break, Martin."

"Approval. Approval, see? Oh, everyone has your approval, Arthur!" Martin spat. "At this point, the Shappey Stamp of Approval doesn't mean anything."

I instantly went about trying to gauge Arthur's reaction and felt sick to realize that, while I've seen Arthur's face when something dies, seen Arthur being berated by people he doesn't owe a bloody thing to, and even seen him yelled at by his good friends myself and/or Carolyn, this look unsettled me more.

"I don't care how bright and shining I look to you, with your rose-colored glasses," Martin said boldly, in that tone he used when he didn't really believe a word he was saying. 

Arthur choked. "Rose-colored! Hang on, Skip!" He said quickly, putting his hands physically out in front of him to shield himself.

"I know the truth, I  _see_  the truth, and you...you are  _stupid_ , Arthur. You're so stupid. I've honestly never met anyone so stupid in my whole life."

I physically felt the blow of Martin's statement in my chest. There was a real pain in them, a real exasperation, and I couldn't bear to look at Arthur, coward I am. I grabbed for my coffee, sipping at it to steel myself, staring ahead for a moment out at the sky. All was where it should be all around us, while nothing was as it should be where we sat and Arthur stood. The silence that rang out wasn't the least bit comfortable, not even for ever-comfortable me. No, especially not for me.

Martin was seething for some secret, stupid reason or another, and Arthur was blankly standing in the corner, looking like he'd prefer to just hide in the storage locker until blessed suffocation. Meanwhile, I desperately wanted them to tell me it was all a joke or to make up over a game about otters or yellow cars. But, clearly, that was not going to happen anytime soon.

Arthur turned very slowly, glancing at Martin with a perfect stone blankness on his face that scared me. He paused in a way that indicated he was without purpose in doing so, and then he turned and walked through the flight deck door without another word. 

I was afraid to say anything to Martin just yet, after that display of cruelty borne of pain. He'd be terribly defensive if I did. And at the same time, I wasn't quite sure I wanted to leave the flying to him, but I'm not the one who's supposed to worry, am I? That was Martin's thing, Carolyn's thing. I was supposed to be fun-loving and optimistic like Arthur. And, at the moment, Arthur wasn't holding his end, so I'd have to be even more cheery. Eurgh. 

I cleared my throat, causing Martin to jump and grip harder at the controls. "Sir?" I said. He glanced at me, tilted his head at the term. What can I say? It was a strange moment for us all. "If you're alright to fly, I think I'll use the facilites."

"Mm? Yes, of course," he said dismissively, then added, "and I'm always alright to fly, Douglas."

"Of course."

I made my way out of the flight deck, but I'd be stopping well before I made my way to the loo.

***

The galley was chillingly empty. The microwave beeped at me, but I ignored it. Arthur had been in the middle of getting out a few biscuits, apparently, judging by the lone biscuit set on top of the open package. I grabbed it and a serviette, figuring that Martin would be okay if I left him to fly, and would honestly likely be better for it.

It took some rummaging around, but I found the ginger tea we have around for nausea, and I grabbed a second biscuit as well. 

***

"Mind if I join you?" I asked. Normally, the question would have been for show, considering it's Arthur, but I found as I observed him that I really wasn't sure what the answer would be. He was strapped into one of the passenger seats, his arms wrapped around himself in a sort of pathetic hug, and he was looking out the window. Only, he wasn't watching the wing or the clouds, and he certainly wasn't daydreaming about how brilliant the place we were heading (Fitton, in this case) was going to be. He was looking out the window as if, by wishing hard enough, he might escape and be free of Martin and myself forever.

"I don't care," he said, voice scratchy with the tears that adorned his face. It didn't sound like him when he tries to lie. It didn't sound like that at all.

"Oh Arthur," I said softly. The sound of his voice chipped away at my resolve. I made my way to him anyway. He needed me, didn't he? "Here, I've brought you ginger tea and some biscuits."

He slowly turned and looked at me. The mug in my hand shook slightly, and the biscuits felt very crumbly and stupid in my palm, made me feel crumbly and stupid and old. He finally reached out and took them from me, mercifully.

"Thank you," he said. It also was not a lie, but his eyes were full of such a profound disappointment that I knew the biscuits wouldn't even be able scratch the surface. Nor the tea.

"For what it's worth, Arthur," I said, "I actually thought you were a good friend to Martin in there. It's not your fault he got upset."

Arthur Shappey stared at me blankly and chewed at a biscuit to give himself something to do.

"You left something in the microwave," I told him.

"Well, I don't care," Arthur said sharply, surprising me.

I awkwardly cleared my throat. "Alright. Should I tend to it?"

"Oh." Arthur finally seemed to relax, which also surprised me. "Would you, Douglas? Yeah, just cover it and put it in the fridge. Thank you, Douglas. And thank you also for the tea and biscuits." He sniffled. 

"Here," I said firmly, handing him my handkerchief. I never really end up needing to use one most of the time, but I like to carry one around just in case. I've often rescued ladies in distress that way, and a surprising amount of gentlemen in distress. "Think nothing of it. You'd have done the same for me," I said with certainty. "Now, what brings you all the way back here?"

"I'm a passenger, remember?" Arthur said softly, wistfully. "You fixed it up for me to fly as a passenger when I ruined everything for us at Ispwich."

I frowned. I wished to explain to Arthur that he doesn't ruin anything, not really, because he's Arthur and he exists outside the normal "rules", and sod rules anyway. I had, unfortunately, no idea how to convey this to him.

"You're always there to fix the things I can't," Arthur said, looking straight into my eyes with untold depths of selflessness and sincerity shining through. "So, I need you to fix something else. And don't say no. If you're really my hero, then don't say no."

"Okay," I said, throat dry. "I'll fix it, Arthur. What is it?"

He looked at me like I was stupid. Not a frequent look one gets from Arthur, but I'd been on the receiving end of it before. Sometimes things were obvious to him when they bloody well weren't obvious to me.

"It's Skip," he said, frowning. "I mean, obviously, right?" He gave a hollow laugh as if all was fine. "I need you to go to Skip, because I really failed him."

"Oh  _Arthur_ ," I said, pained and incredulous to absolutely shameful levels over the statement. 

"It's really not fair to Skip if you lie to me, Douglas," Arthur said gently, always so gentle, even when his own heart is being ripped to shreds. He offered me the second biscuit. "Here, this is for you. Go make yourself some tea if you're scared of Skip. You are. I can see it."

I stared heavily at Arthur. Actually, I rather was. I drew in a deep breath. "If you're really sure? Once again, I actually happen to disagree with the idea that you failed him in any way, Arthur. If anything, he—"

"That'll be all, Douglas," Arthur said sharply. His tone reminded me of Carolyn. You'd have thought I'd just told him I was contemplating selling the plane.

I nodded with a grace I'd thought had left me and went to return to the flight deck. I'd been found out and dismissed. Sometimes, Arthur's too smart for his own good.

And for mine.

I made up some ginger tea for myself before going back in. I didn't bother Martin the rest of the time, and I'm not sure he'd have noticed if I'd tried. After some consideration, I offered him the landing, which he took. It was uncharacteristically smooth. Eerily smooth.

I went to congratulate him, but he shot me a glare that stopped the words from coming. I didn't leave right away, still hoping there was some way I could help fix things. Feeling oddly useless as Martin started on the paperwork as if I wasn't in the room, I offered to help Arthur with the hoovering.

Yes, let me say that again: I offered to help Arthur with the hoovering.

But he didn't want me around either.

***

Carolyn usually avoided calling me at all costs, and I usually avoided answering. It was an arrangement we usually strove to keep. But when her ringtone sounded just as I was settling onto my aging yet presentable old sofa, I knew better than to ignore the call.

"Hello, Carolyn," I said.

"Douglas, what did you do?" she demanded.

Ah. So Arthur had gotten home safely, at least. "Oh,  _thanks_  for that," I said coolly. "Yes, thanks." 

Bit of a terrible thing to imply, when I'd always been the one to try and lift Arthur's spirits. I'm not his hero for no reason, after all. I felt a little resentment toward Carolyn for that.

"Arthur has become uncharacteristically ho-hum, Douglas, and I want to know why." 

Ho-hum? Quite the understatement. Ho-hum was Arthur at a funeral. This had been worse; I'd sent home a very broken Arthur; he had not been merely ho-hum.

Poor Carolyn, though. Maybe I should have called and warned her, but I'd been hoping Arthur would snap out of it. He's normally so resilient. He doesn't normally look as shattered as Martin had made him look, though.

What to tell Carolyn? It was Arthur and Martin's business, surely. "Have you tried asking him?" I finally said.

"What do you take me for?" Ah. Right. "Yes, I have. He told me in no uncertain terms to leave him alone."

I raised a brow. No, not characteristic. "Then, here's my suggestion: Leave him alone. He's bound to come round. He can handle anything, given time."

She sighed. "Well, perhaps you're right." Then, after a pause and some consideration, she added, "Maybe I'll get something for pudding."

Surely a bit of pampering from Mum could only help. "Sounds like an idea," I encouraged. "If that's all?"

"Yes, for now," she said. "But I might call again if things are still...worrisome."

"I think he'll come round," I said with a voice that portrayed more confidence than I felt.

***

No matter how bad things had been, I never expected that Arthur wouldn't be on the next flight.

I'm sorry, let me run that by you again. Arthur Shappey, a man who once watched the flaps throughout an entire aeroplane ride, didn't show up for a flight.

I could only remember one other time that he'd missed a flight, and that was due to the fact he'd been in a hospital bed, and even then he'd wondered if we could take out the seats and fit the bed onto the plane (incidentally, we couldn't). The substitute stewardess, one of Arthur's cheery female friends, had been technically better at the job, but she'd lacked Arthur's love for everything stewardy. You can get technically correct anywhere; there is only one Arthur Shappey.

To make the lack of Arthur that much more pronounced, the flight in question just happened to include ten passengers. When Carolyn came into the flight deck for a break, she did so taking a swig of wine and shaking her head. "I wasn't even supposed to be here today," she huffed. "None of this lot is important. None of them." 

"So," Martin said uneasily. "No, er, Arthur today."

"Yes, Martin," Carolyn said, fixing him with a blazing gaze. "No Arthur. He made it quite clear to me that he's 'on holiday'." She grimaced.

"Did he really?" I asked, surprised to hear he might be missing more flights than just the one. "For how long?"

"For as long as he wants," Carolyn bit out. She softened almost immediately and added, "This is so unlike him."

"Well, maybe the break will do him good," I said kindly.

"Maybe," she said, and then she turned suspicious. "Why? What happened last flight?"

Ah. As often was the case when it comes to emotions and not to games, she'd seen through me. "Who said something happened?" I challenged.

"You did. You didn't say nothing happened; you just said to try asking him. So I asked, but he said not to worry about it. But what he doesn't seem to grasp is that I'm his mother and therefore will worry about what I damn well please. So did he do something?"

Before I could answer, Martin stuttered out, "D-do something? What makes you say that?" Clearly, the line of inquiry was getting to him.

She looked at him pityingly, like she thought he was stupid. I was looking at him much the same way. "Because, Martin, if someone else did something, he'd be on this plane. The only way he would not be on this plane is if he felt he was no longer worthy to sit in it. Now, what did he do?"

Now that's a mother who knows her child. 

"Technically? He did nothing wrong," I said. 

"But in his own mind?"

"Ah." I paused. "Not-so-technically, in Arthur terms, I think he believes he must have." I glanced at Martin, who was looking determinedly ahead.

"Idiot boy," she said affectionately. "Well, we'll see how he feels after his holiday." She downed the rest of the wine and added sharply, "And how he's feeling better be 'up to stewarding', let me tell you." 

When I looked over at Martin as she left, there was a crease of worry in his brow, as well there should have been. And when it threatened to be another quiet flight, I pulled him into a word game with a bit of coaxing, and, for the first time in a while, neither of us gave a toss who won. 

***

"Well," Carolyn said in a deceptively light tone. "I thought I should let you all know that Arthur Shappey is no longer a steward. He is an office assistant, and he believes he won't be returning to MJN any time soon." 

Martin went rather pale.

"Well?" she said. 

"Well what?" I asked.

"What happened?"

Time stretched on in that moment. I wondered if, with enough silence, Carolyn would tactically retreat, only to spring the question on us later. I wondered if, in the silence, Martin would finally break and blurt out the truth. I finally realized neither eventuality was going to happen and that I'd have to tell her.

"Words may have been tossed around," I said.

"Oh?" She looked at both of us in turn. "Words were tossed around at Arthur?" Her gaze was suddenly steel-like. It reminded me of the way she'd looked at Gordon Shappey. I can't imagine what living him must have been like, especially if he'd treated Arthur poorly. Arthur Shappey is secretly as much my hero as I am his, and he's his mother's pride and joy. Gordon Shappey is, as I can attest, an idiot.

"Martin raised his voice at Arthur," I said gently, not wanting undue anger aimed at Martin. "Martin deeply regrets this. We thought he'd be back and that we could put things right," I offered. "We didn't expect his holiday, or that he'd quit."

"He hasn't quit," Carolyn said sharply. "He's on a very, very long holiday."

"I didn't want him to leave!" Martin burst out. "Oh god." He wilted in his seat, bowing his head and staring at the floor as if being sucked into it would be a preferable future to any one above the ground. "I lost my temper. He didn't...he didn't do  _anything_. He really didn't."

"I believe you, Martin. You are many things. You are prideful, petty, anxious, and helpless in social situations, but you are not cruel. You care about Arthur." She tried to make eye-contact, but Martin still couldn't look up. "Now that you two have  _finally_  told me what you know, we can go about fixing it."

"You don't understand. I was horrible," Martin said, his voice barely a whisper. 

Carolyn's expression softened. "I'm trusting you to put it right, then. And, Douglas?"

"Yes?" I said, feeling ready to rise to whatever it was she asked of me.

"Hold Martin's hand if you need to, but just get it done."

"Yes, ma'am," I said with a nod. Martin's face grew pale again.

***

I never expected Arthur to slam the door in my face when he caught sight of Martin standing behind me. Martin, already not too high in confidence regarding the task of getting Arthur back as steward, looked close to tears, so I took him to a bar.

I sat and talked to Martin, buying him a few drinks. He didn't say much in return, but he did try, stumbling through a few lines of discussion on a news story or on a book he half remembered having to read for school.

"What have I done, Douglas?" he finally asked as we were about to leave. He shook his head, and the self-hatred lingered on him like a thick perfume. "That wasn't like Arthur."

"No, it wasn't," I admitted. Martin sagged in his chair, resting his arms on the table and slumping forward.

***

The car ride was silent except for the radio and my singing, which Martin was too lost in thought to complain about. Just as I'd pulled over in front of Martin's flat to let him out, he reached over, gripping at my sleeve with a strength that reminded me he moved heavy boxes for a living. "Yes, Martin?"

"Could you try to contact him for me, Douglas? He'll listen to you. He cares for you, so much." His eyes pleaded with mine, and I couldn't refuse them.

"Alright," I said, trying to read his face in the low light of the street lamp. "Alright, Martin." I shook my sleeve out of his grasp as he seemed to relax, and I turned the radio down. "You know, Martin, I'm not above outbursts like yours, especially back in my prime. I know how to be cruel. I understand. We all get frustrated, but trust me when I say it doesn't have to be the end of the world. You've not _broken_  Arthur Shappey," I joked. But then, I wasn't entirely sure that wasn't exactly what he'd done.

Martin leaned over the seat and pulled me into an awkward partway embrace that I gladly partway returned. "Take it easy, captain," I told him. He nodded, and I had the thought that maybe he actually would.

***

Carolyn made such a frustrated noise that I looked up from stirring my coffee. "If Arthur's not here, what's the point of all this?" she demanded, asking the situation itself more than either me or Martin.

"Come now," I said, trying for encouraging. "What about revenge on your horrible old ex-husband? Or how about because being a CEO is great? And you get to see the world, don't you?"

"Sod the world, Douglas!" she snapped. 

I really didn't know what to say to that, so I wisely kept quiet.

"Excuse me," she said a moment later, and I honestly think she went to the loo for a bit of a cry.

***

"Hi, Douglas," Arthur said, answering the phone. Usually a call from me has him screaming into the receiver like it's Father Christmas, so to hear him so ho-hum about it was a bit trying on my secretly fragile ego (at least when it comes to the people I care about).

"Hello, Arthur. I believe you know why I'm calling," I began.

"It's about what happened on the flight."

"Yes."

He sighed heavily. "Alright. Only, can we do this in person?" 

I wondered if he was lonely. "Of course."

"And you won't—"

"One-hundred percent Martin-free," I assured him, and swallowed at the tightness in my throat at even saying such a thing.

"Brilliant," he said softly. "Just tell me where."

***

"The thing about Martin," I said as we settled into our chairs, "is that he's a colossal berk."

"Aw, no, it's okay. I overstepped," Arthur said. "I completely understand." He put on a pained smile that shocked me. I knew in that moment that I never wanted to see him make that expression again.

I reached out, resting my hand on his shoulder. "Arthur, he was out of line. I know it, he knows it, and your mum knows it. I hope, deep down, you know it too."

"Naw. Skip doesn't think so," Arthur said quietly. "I mean, he really just doesn't. And that's...that's okay."

I blinked at him in surprise. Martin had wilted like a spring bud in the Saharan heat at the thought of Arthur leaving because of him, I recalled. "But he does! He wanted me to contact you. He wants me to convince you to let him apologize. He's very sorry, Arthur. I've never seen him sorrier."

Arthur gave a little shrug. "It's kind of hopeless, this, isn't it? Trying to find a way to go back to the way things were. This was a wake-up call."

And what stupid thing, pray tell, could Arthur Shappey have woken up to realize in all of this nonsense that would cause him to leave his own airdot?

"I can't be Arthur Shappey, professional clot. At least here at this new job, I can't ruin a BMW or give Skip food poisoning." He picked at his pasta a little more, thoughtful. "It's good for me to grow up. People like me better now. I get stuff done cause I'm not always thinking about how much fun I'm having."

Like him better? Most emphatically not true. Oh, I had to speak up. "Arthur, I, for one, know that despite how hard it is for you to focus sometimes, your thoughts borne of happiness have merits most thoughts could only dream of."  His eyes met mine cautiously. "I know what I like, and I  _don't_  like you better this way," I declared.

"Hm." Arthur made swirls in the pattern of his sauce with the tine of his fork. "Well," he said slowly, "I don't know how else to be right now."

I needlessly stirred my coffee. "That's alright," I said. "We'll figure it out." As long as we worked together.

"I never meant to disappoint you," Arthur said softly, and I looked up, my gaze sharp. I bit my lip as I watched him pick at his pasta like he was searching for something he knew he was never going to find.

"Arthur," I coaxed. He met my gaze again, slowly. "Arthur, I don't like you this way because you seem more sad, not necessarily more mature. I don't have a problem with the way you've always been. I may call you a clot if you mess something up, but when I mess something up, you are perfectly allowed to say it back to me. Remember? I can be a clot too. And Martin  _definitely_  can." A tension fell over him at the mention of Martin. The mention of Martin usually had him lighting up like a control panel on the fritz.

"Arthur, you know I lie an awful lot, but I'm telling you the truth right now. You have the most beautiful soul I know of, and the strength of character and...strength of  _happiness_  to solve more problems than you're even aware exist." I drew in a deep breath, preparing myself. "Do you know what I love most about MJN air?"

He shrugged. "Martin," he offered. "Right?"

"No. Not right."

He frowned. "Flying, then?"

"Arthur,  _you're_  my favorite thing about MJN air." His utter disbelief nearly halted me, but I charged ahead before he could protest my statement. "Granted, before I got to know you, you weren't, but now I don't like it without you." I swallowed at the uncomprehending expression on his face. "You make it alright that I'm not very professional. You put me at ease, and you put Martin at ease. I'm not going to bother asking you to come back on your mother's behalf or on Martin's if it won't work. I'd like you to consider coming back for me, though, because we're friends. At least," I said carefully, "I was always under the impression that we were."

"Of course we are, Douglas," Arthur said quickly. "Besides Mum, no one's ever been there for me like you have. And," he hesitated.

I swallowed. "And?"

"And we'll always be friends, even if I don't come back?" So hesitant, so ready to be tossed aside. Too many others had tossed his soul aside. His leaving us was starting to make a bit more sense.

"Of course," I said with perhaps too much force, but he didn't mind. He offered a very shy smile.

"Well. That's...brilliant," he said, and he almost sounded like he meant it.

***

"You've hardly touched pudding," I pointed out.

"You can finish it, Douglas." I studied his expression. Was he punishing himself, or did he genuinely not want pudding?

I decided he'd eaten as much as he could in his nervous state, so I ate his pudding for him. It felt thick and wrong going down my throat, but at least he offered me another almost-smile. It was better than a false one.

As I ate, I asked, "Are you going to come back to work with us, Arthur?"

The question seemed to surprise him, though it shouldn't have. After all, it was his own airdot, when you got down to it. "I'll definitely think about it," he said slowly. 

"Alright." That had to be good enough for me, for the moment. "And," I pressed, "will you at least try to be happy, at any rate?" I was unable to keep from sounding worried.

"Yeah," he said in a relieved sort of sigh. "Of course. For you, I'll try." 

Before I knew it, I'd pulled him into an embrace. It was supposed to be a quick thing, a little parting between good friends, one of who was very sad, but Arthur sucked in a breath and made what must have been a sob and clung a little, and I started with the "There, there"s and ignored the way he was wrinkling my shirt.

I ached for him. The man who would hug absolutely anyone should never be reduced to surprise at the offer of comfort, much less a half-arsed comfort from the likes of Douglas Richardson.

"This is the Arthur Shappey I like," I said gently. "The one who doesn't have to hide himself. He's more important than some miserable old office assistant with nothing but maturity to cling to."

He garbled out something that may have been a thank you before pulling away to get himself cleaned up.

***

My spirits lifted at the sight of Arthur in his old uniform standing in the flight deck of his mother's plane. Maybe in very little time at all we could pretend the hurdle we were trying to clear had never tripped us up in the first place. 

"So glad you came, Arthur," I said, covering up my lingering nerves as well I could, which was usually pretty well when the person I was deceiving was Arthur. "Did I help convince you?" 

"Yes you did, Douglas," he said. It was music to my ears, containing a breath of his old excitement.

"I'm sure Martin's glad to see you as well," I offered blatantly, despite any factual evidence. I badly wanted it to be proven true, though. Everything would hopefully go back to the way it was, in time.

I couldn't help but notice that Arthur and Martin glanced at each other for an inordinately long amount of time before Arthur said with finality, "I won't bother you except about stewardy things, Martin."

There'd been promise in the length of time they'd watched each other, a sort of need for connection and simultaneous bolstering of emotional walls that spoke volumes to me. But...he'd called him Martin and not Skip. And Martin wasn't about to let him know the bothering he did was entirely welcome.

Martin frowned, but nodded. "Of course. Sorry. Yes, of course. W-welcome." The tension in his body as he leaned foward told me there was a universe of things he'd have liked to feel he could say to Arthur. But before he would have had a chance, if he'd have indeed taken said chance, Arthur, oblivious to it all, saluted him and went through the flight deck door. 

"He's never going to offer me a compliment again," said Martin, a desperate sadness inside of him that he was doing a poor job of hiding, but bless him for trying anyway. 

"Well, no, probably not," I agreed. He looked down, weighted with guilt, and I leaned in toward him slightly to add, "Unless, of course, you tell him you want him to. And you do, don't you?"

Martin sighed. "I don't know." Typical Martin. Maybe he was combating the idea that he liked to be flattered. Maybe he was trying to give Arthur some space. Any reason fell flat for me, and I was the only one he had to tell his reasons to.

"Martin," I said with a shake of my head, "how does one not know how one feels about a compliment from Arthur Shappey? He means every one of them, or did you think he suddenly discovered how to tell a lie?"

Martin tugged at his collar. "Is it warm in here?" he asked. I cleared my throat, not willing to play Let's Change the Subject with Martin, not about this. It was actually cool in the flight deck, though Martin's face was certainly heating.

"Why did you yell at Arthur, then, if not out of annoyance?" I asked in a casual tone.

"Well, it  _was_  out of annoyance, definitely," he admitted.

"But?"

"Self-loathing, Douglas. Self-loathing." Ah. "And Arthur," he shook his head, "Arthur came offering statements about me that, frankly, didn't add up. So, I'm sorry I'm such a social failure that I couldn't  _blindly_  appreciate the praise like you could have."

Oh, that made sense. That made entirely too  _much_  sense. That made enough sense to fill GERTI right up to the door of the flight deck. 

"Ah," I said. 

Martin was an idiot. But, I understand self-loathing. I understand not being able to see the good in you, even when there were people around who would shout it from the rooftops, from an aeroplane, from the back of a polar bear.

"But that's not even...that's not even all of it," Martin said. His voice was suddenly heavy in an entirely new way. There was something there he'd not even admitted to himself yet.

"You know, Martin, I don't blindly appreciate things either. It's okay to like what Arthur says because he means it, even if no one else agrees. And...just to be clear," I paused, "you  _do_  like men romantically sometimes, don't you?"

Martin's silence said what he couldn't. I'd seen him look at men, I'd seen him avoid looking at them, and I'd seen him hesitate sometimes when he talked about his past loves or what he wanted in life.

"Well, Martin," I said, "you know I care about you."

"I...yes, you do," he admitted, a bit thrown by the change in subject. Oh. No, I didn't mean it like that.

"You care about everyone, don't you?" Martin sighed before I could remind him that I wasn't interested. "Secretly, I mean. You're certainly better at it than I am." His shoulders slumped.

"Well, I don't know about that," I said honestly. "Incidentally, I think you'd be a lot happier if you stopped comparing yourself to people and just tried to be the best Martin you can be."

He shrugged.

"My point in asking about if you ever have feelings toward men was that it was very uncharacteristic of you to lash out quite so much at anyone for just annoying you. I know there was pain wrapped up in there, and I'm beginning to think there are feelings mixed up in all this that you're aware of."

He didn't say anything, not that I could really blame him. I probably wouldn't have either.

"You know, I told him last night that he's my favorite thing about this job," I offered, trying to form a connection between the two of us. I was really itching to know how he felt about Arthur. His reaction surprised me.

"Douglas!" Martin said, and he was suddenly more alive than I'd seen him in a week. His face was turning red, his eyes full of sharp reproach. "Douglas, you can't lie to him like that! That's horrible!" The indignation was a confirmation. Unexpected, but favorable.

I stared at Martin and waited for him to calm a little. It hadn't been my intention to offend him. "Much as the job has a few other perks, I was serious about that, Martin," I explained.

"Oh." Suddenly, it was like the air went out of his tires and he just sort of sat there waiting for a travelling pump to refill them with.

"...Oh, Martin," I said, shaking my head. "Look, I just want him to go back to normal. I don't have the power to make that happen, though. You do, I don't." Martin stared hard at me with that same piercing gaze. "Even if I have to haul you over my shoulder to Carolyn's house in the wee hours of the morning so you can toss rocks at his bedroom window, you're going to put this right. And I'll definitely hold your hand while you do it."

Martin swallowed, but he nodded, looking as if I'd commanded him to enter a battle he had no chance of surviving. 

He may have terrible luck, but I don't send soldiers into battles that can't be won. Or, at least I haven't yet.

***

Between my trip to the loo, which was actually just a discreet way to check up on Arthur, and my demanding of a hot drink when Martin wouldn't ask for it himself, I had a painful flash of realization: Arthur Shappey was, at the moment, far more at ease dealing with a particularly demanding passenger than he was dealing with Martin, which was not at all right and put a damper in my dream of us all moving forward and having as much fun as we'd always had. 

"I hurt him too badly to work things out," Martin said after Arthur left, voice soft and breaking, and oddly resigned.

"Mm. No, not really," I said. I smirked as I noted Martin's expression of disbelief. "Well, he's back on the plane, isn't he?"

"Hm," Martin said thoughtfully.

Apparently, the flight deck door had been left open a crack. Having heard us talk, Arthur pushed inside, a couple sugar packets in the palm of his hand. "I've been trying, really trying to stay out of your hair and leave you alone," he said to Martin, proud of his accomplishment and desperate to prove himself all at once. "I really have."

The despair in Martin's face as he turned to me broke my heart, but he managed to banish most of it before turning to Arthur. "The truth is, Arthur," he said shakily, "I've missed you."

"Oh." Arthur frowned, confusion radiating from him. "Er. Thank you," he said, offering Martin the sugar wordlessly. "I...I forgot," he said, sheepish and a little sad.

"Thank you," Martin said quickly. He seemed to reach out in order to take the sugar from Arthur, but it went beyond the brief contact necessary to better his coffee. He curled his hand around Arthur's large and gentle one, and he didn't let go until the gesture became awkward and salient enough that Arthur spoke up.

"Skip? I'm going to need my hand back."

Martin let go of Arthur's hand so quickly that the packets of sugar fell to the ground between them like unspoken words. 

"Right-o," said Arthur, and as I glanced at him, I saw pain as well as the desperation of an attempt not to look pained, which made him look all the more pained. "I'll see to the passengers," he said, eyeing Martin suspiciously for a moment. 

"Thank you, Arthur," I said finally in the silence. "Though, do be a dear and take care of two things for me. One, hand Martin those sugar packets he dropped. And two, don't let the man with the handlebar mustache get you down; he's a jerk. I think he's recently divorced, which doesn't surprise me."

Arthur tried to smile a bit, just for me, collecting the packets for Martin and handing them to him with a minimal amount of contact. Not ideal, but better. "Yeah, probably," Arthur said in reply. "Should I try and see if he's got one of those tan lines from a wedding ring?" 

"Absolutely," I said, looking over at Martin and catching a hint of amusement on his face at the idea of Arthur investigating.

***

"Martin, where do you see things going with Arthur?" He stared at me, surprised and with seemingly no intention of replying. "You _do_ like him, don't you?" I pressed.

"Who doesn't, really?" He brushed it off, looking away again.

I found myself slightly annoyed. "Martin, it would be in your best interest to let him know why you snapped at him, if it was self-loathing. He's still got it in his head that you don't want to be near him, so where  _I_  see things going with Arthur includes nothing changing until the day he leaves to find himself again because things build up inside of him and the pain is too much."

"Pain?! What pain? Arthur Shappey's never in pain!" Martin scoffed, but what he was really saying was that he never _wanted_  to see Arthur in pain.

Oh, Martin.

"He feels strongly about you, you know, as a friend and possibly as more. You're his hero as much as I am—well, close to it anyway—and I need you to understand this: that, yes, even after what happened, even after you yelled at him, he's still got an interest in you in some way or another, and he's dying to get closer. I forgive your lack of people-reading skills, but I'm just letting you know that Arthur Shappey is begging to be closer to you. And I'm letting you know I've got to do what I can to stop him being miserable."

"Well, I told him I missed him," Martin said defensively. "And, don't forget, I grabbed his hand. I grabbed his hand, and he just stared at me."

I nodded. "That you did," I acknowledged. "Good moves on both fronts, though the hand-holding did have a certain shadow of awkward, what-the-hell-is-Martin-doing to it. He's not rejecting you, not entirely, but he does feel uncertain about where the two of you stand, which is much the same way you're feeling. I think you'll get farther with him if you give him what he really deserves, which is an explanation. You owe him that."

I paused, "Do you follow that? You don't owe him missing him or holding his hand, even though they're great things to offer. You owe him making things right for the situation that threw his little world of MJN off kilter. If this were reversed, I'd say the same to him."

Martin nodded slowly. He didn't say anything for a good while, and I began to imagine what they two of them would even be like in a relationship. I imagined a lot of awkward stuttering and maybe a few kisses in the flight deck.

"It never  _would_  be reversed, would it?" Martin's voice broke through my mental image of the happy couple sharing pudding at the restaurant I'd taken Arthur to the other night.

"No," I answered. "I don't suppose it would be."

"Arthur would have gotten sharp, maybe—we've seen him turn a bit Carolyn under pressure on more than one occasion," Martin said slowly, "but he'd have apologized to me right away. He'd have made me feel...made me feel warm and wanted. I know he would have."

I was impressed. Perhaps Martin had been paying attention after all. "I agree with that assessment," I said.

"I can't get through a single week without doing something infinitely horrible, can I?" Martin supplied with a hint of grave humor.

"No, you can't," I said simply, slightly amused at the stinging affect the statement had on him. "Don't forget, however, that Arthur is a colossal clot. You've nearly frozen a cat to death, and he booked a flight for his family that we had to take a loss for. You've hit a 14-year-old kid, and Arthur's made some of the worst culinary creations I've ever seen."

Martin slowly started to smile. "And...you crushed a koi and left the van keys in the piano," he said, gauging my reaction. 

I smiled. "Yes, Martin. I absolutely did."

***

When we arrived back at Fitton, I hung around and waited for Martin and Arthur to finish their tasks. I didn't offer to help like I had the last time, I just sort of acted put-upon instead. When GERTI was well and hoovered, I said, "Arthur, come with me. We'll wait for Skip together."

"Why?" Arthur asked, suspicious.

"Because I'm taking you two out for a coffee," I said simply.  

Arthur looked a little concerned, but he said nothing in reply. I could see thoughts warring in him. He contemplated just leaving more than a few times, I think. He really cared about Martin, though. He really wanted things to get better. He was trying to soldier on too.

I rested my hand on Martin's shoulder, an act which made him jump and smudge a bit of the writing. "Martin, we're all going out for a coffee," I announced. "We're going to sit in comfy chairs with a hot drink and talk about pressing issues. And I'm not asking, I'm telling, so don't bother to protest."

Despite what I said, Martin started to protest, but when he took a good, long look at Arthur's conflicted expression, he quietly nodded instead.

***

"So," Arthur said as we found comfortable chairs and sat down around a table only small enough for coffee and pastries. "Pressing issues?"

"Why, this wall between you and Martin, of course," I said, as if surprised he didn't know. "I, as your older and wiser friend who has lost his temper more than the two of you combined could ever hope to, am here to help make things right between you." 

Arthur tried to catch Martin's eye, but Martin was determinedly staring at the handle of his mug. Arthur frowned lightly, then the frown increased until he said, "Well, I'm going to get a pastry." 

Martin suddenly came alive when Arthur walked off, his eyes darting round, and he said, "So! Just have a nice chat with him over coffee and explain that he didn't do anything wrong." He pasted a false smile in place. I really hate false smiles.

"Exactly," I said, and took a sip. "And you'll tell him that you care about him, won't you? That might help. Might not want to let on that you've fallen for him, though. Not just yet."

Martin froze, looking absolutely terrified at the realization that I'd figured him out. Poor sod.

"Martin," I said gently, "of course I know."

"R-right," he squeaked out, actually shaking a bit. As he sat and stared at his mug again, turning it and trying to ignore me for the moment, I got out my phone and texted Arthur to buy a pastry for Martin.

"Martin," I said seriously, "you aren't the first person to crush on our Arthur Shappey, not by a long shot. If you talked to him about how you feel, I believe he'd ask you out on the spot, and he's too kind for pity dates; he knows the cruelty of a pity date from an unfortunate amount of personal experience. I see the way he reacts to you, and I think he's as much in your web as you're tangled up in his."

Martin was still frozen. 

"Both of you are ridiculously unprepared for that conversation, though," I reminded myself as much as Martin. "You'll barely get through the one at hand."

"W-which is?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Apologizing. Reassuring him he wasn't doing anything but being the best Arthur Shappey he can be."

"Right." Martin actually looked a bit ill. "Excuse me," he said, heading for the loo.

I felt guilt knocking at my stomach. I certainly hadn't meant to upset Martin so much. As I began to really wonder if talking about it all over coffee was such a good idea after all, Arthur appeared with three scones, which was a scone more than expected. "Where's Skip?" he asked with real concern.

"Sicking up, I imagine." I gestured for Arthur to sit down.

"Oh. I, er...I guess Skip could have used some of that ginger tea, then," Arthur joked slowly. Then, considering it, he laughed and added, "Or maybe two cups, seeing as he's really ginger." He bit his lip at the joke, eyes shining in such a familiar way that I chuckled.

"But then, he's short enough you might just need the one," I teased. "But, changing the subject a bit, Arthur, why are there three scones? I expected you to come back with two." Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of the hair Arthur so appreciated as Martin walked toward us with dread dragging at his heels.

"It's repayment. For taking me to dinner the other night," Arthur said brightly. "And for the tea and biscuits on the plane." He really was starting to look a lot more like himself already.

"Well, in that case, thank you, Arthur," I said, taking my scone. I glanced at Martin again, who had almost made it back to his chair.

Arthur turned to see what I was looking at, smiling a bit when he saw Martin instead of letting his face fall. There are plenty of reasons why I find Arthur Shappey to be the bravest man I've ever met. "Got you a scone, Martin. Is that okay?"

Martin sucked in a quiet breath through his nose, apprehensive as he nodded and slowly took his seat. "Thank you." He looked like he expected danger from all sides and knew where his weapon was but not quite how to fire it.

"It was no trouble."

"You know," Martin hesitated, "you can...you can still call me Skip."

"Really?" Arthur looked genuinely surprised.

"Well, w-we're friends. Aren't we? I'm...." Martin took a sip of his coffee and cleared his throat. He needed a push to go on, though.

"Skip?"

"Arthur, I'm sorry," Martin rushed out. "Truly. You were just trying to be nice to me that day. It was me who ruined things." He looked down. "And I don't want them to be ruined anymore," he added quietly.

"Well, I still think I played some hand," Arthur murmured. "I mean," he chuckled a soft, self-deprecating laugh, "after all, I'm me."

"No, Arthur! You did really well," Martin urged, impulsively reaching out to rest his hand on Arthur's. Arthur blinked at the contact, his eyes wide, but he didn't pull away. "It's just that I'm not...I'm not fond of myself." He swallowed. The truth in the revelation brought sorrow to Arthur's gaze, but Martin barely paused before saying, "So, sometimes...sometimes the compliments.... You might mean them, but...but I'm so tired of being told things I can't see, and." He sighed. "It's hard to trust things I don't understand. Hard for any of us, isn't it?"

"Well, not for me, but I'm a clot, right?" Arthur said softly. "Lots of the time, I see things as better than they really are." His tone held a hint of real embarrassment, "It's nice, but sometimes it isn't fun to be so wrong about everything, to see things all rose-colored. And, yes, I suppose we can be friends again," he considered. 

"You suppose?!" I blurted out, surprised that it wasn't a sure thing.

"Yeah. Only, I've got a few conditions about that," he said with a sheepish smile, wiggling his hand out from underneath Martin's. "We can definitely fix this, cause Douglas can fix anything, and Skip...you're brilliant. And, I know how it feels to not think you're worth much. I feel that way about myself all the time."

"I wish you wouldn't feel that way," Martin said quickly. "Er...it's just that...no one else sees those positive things you see in me, except you." He paused, looking at me. "Sometimes, Douglas sees them too," he admitted. "But, mostly you're the one who says it. Sometimes you give me hope that maybe...maybe I'm just a little...."

"Brilliant?" Arthur offered.

"Normal," Martin finished miserably.

I swallowed. Martin's behavior pushed people away, but he didn't always know how to behave because few people stuck around long enough to get close. Lucky for him, Arthur and I were too smart for that ridiculous cycle.

"Oh, Martin!" Arthur said in his "That's not right at all!" tone, "You're the normalest. And also the most interesting. And also the brilliantest. And I...I missed you like I missed GERTI!" he blurted out. "...Oh."

Martin chuckled deeply, no hint of falseness marring it. "Like you missed GERTI? Oh, that much, huh?" He sighed happily. "Arthur, I really...really just missed you too. And I think...I think you just might make my day brighter. And I need that. I'm sorry I pushed you away. You didn't deserve it, not one bit."

"Aww, Skip!" Arthur said, leaning in and flinging his arms around Martin, nearly knocking over his coffee in the process. I pulled his mug toward the center of the table. Neither of them noticed me do it.

"By the way, Arthur," I reminded as they remained in their strange public embrace. "What are your conditions for the reinstatement of your friendship with Martin?"

"Oh! Well." Arthur sat up straight in his comfy chair and looked at Martin and me in turn, suddenly so all-business he reminded me of his mother. "Well It's simple, really. I want you to answer a question honestly. And I won't judge you for your answer; you should know by now I won't. I can definitely handle the truth. I want only the truth."

Martin glanced over at me. I nodded. He'd have to go for it; this was on Arthur's terms, and therefore out of my hands. 

"Well?" I asked with a hint of impatience when no question had been forthcoming. "What's the question?"

"It's just that...I mean, I'd like to...." He sighed, running a hand through his hair for a beat. "I need to know, do you really think I'm brilliant?" Arthur breathed in a rush, gaze locked with Martin's. "Honestly, truly? Douglas reckons I'm brilliant, and he's Douglas. I like you, like Romeo likes Juliet, but if we're going to do anything, even kiss, you've got to think I'm brilliant. I've been enough people's leftover cheese it could fill a whole tray," he said, voice cracking slightly at the confession, "but I don't want to taste any different than I do; I'm tired of changing myself around to fit people's crackers. I _am_ the real thing, and I'm not everybody's favorite, sometimes not even mine, but I could be yours if you think I'm brilliant. And that...that'll just have to be good enough."

Arthur's eyes were desperate, and his hands were crossed in front of him in protection, his lip bitten in a plea, and he'd offered all of himself, just broached the subject I'd been hoping they'd avoid, and all in the name of cheese. 

That speech, including metaphors about the cheese tray, was quite possibly the most romantic speech I'd ever heard in real life, and poor Martin looked frozen in fear again in its wake. "It's alright, Martin," I said soothingly. "All you've got to do is answer him, and it sounds like you don't have much to lose." 

"Right. Um." Martin looked into the dwindling liquid in his mug as if it held some kind of encouragement. "Right. Well, I didn't lie. I do think you're brilliant. I think...." Martin looked up again, stared very sincerely at Arthur's pleading expression, which hadn't changed a whit. "To be honest, I think you could have anyone, romantically."

Arthur collapsed back against his chair like the wind had been knocked out of him, except in a good way. He smiled a bit flirtatiously. "You're part of anyone, Skip, did you know that?" he pointed out. 

"Well," Martin swallowed. "I am, technically, yes. It's just...I'm not a very  _good_  person." Martin gave an awkward little flinch. "I mean...I'm really not...good, and you really are. You're...you're kind, and generous, and when I'm not bitter at how good you seem to be at finding happiness, some of that happiness rubs off on me and you show me I can, sometimes, live up to those high hopes you have for me. And that feels...wonderful. Like a real accomplishment."

Arthur was beaming.

"But," Martin said, shying away from the grin, "I mean it when I say you could have anyone. You're romantic, obviously, and you're committed and reliable and, while you don't have many skills to speak of, your work ethic and enthusiasm are hard to match." He fiddled with his napkin, looking down. "Actually, I've not yet seen them matched in my entire life. But in the end, I don't want you to regret offering to date me, offering to love me, what was it, like Romeo loved Juliet?" Martin looked up with laughter in his eyes, and resignation. "There are other people out there who would break their own finger to get a chance to date you. I know it. You don't have to settle for me."

Arthur was touched to the point of tears, but there was a flash of concern and annoyance at the idea that he'd be in any way settling when it came to Martin. He took a moment to collect himself and search for the right words. "But Martin," he finally said, "everyone out there treats me like leftover cheese. I may smile a lot, and I may be really happy, but for every relationship you've never had, I've had one that ended up with me being used by someone, or else the entire relationship was a joke, or else they had to move on cause they outgrew me, or else...or else they could like me but couldn't love me. I could give you names of people I gave my heart to who asked for it, then spat on it when I gave it to them like it was nothing, like I'm nothing."

Martin was looking at Arthur with a deep sorrow, and Arthur quickly said, "The good news here, Skip, is that I don't think you'd do that to me." Then, taking a deep breath, he added bravely, "And, honestly, I don't care if you do. I really don't! I'd rather know what's going to happen between us than always wonder about that pilot who worked for mum, the one with the silly hat."

Martin blinked, either ignoring or not even registering the bit about the hat. "You'd really like me to ask you out to coffee, then? I won't...I'll really do my best not to treat you like the others did, alright? I mean...you'd really say yes?"

"Yes! A thousand times yes!" Arthur enthused. "Look, I know you're not a hundred percent prepared for a relationship, so I'll cut you a lot of slack. But I'll try not to cut you so much you don't learn anything, isn't that fair?" Arthur asked, offering his hand to Martin again.

Martin took it, boldly linking their fingers together. "We're already having a coffee," said Arthur thoughtfully.

"...Yes, we are," I said after an awkward silence.

"So, maybe we could retroactively make this a date."

"Douglas is here, though," Martin said, reddening a little as he remembered my presence.

"...So?" said Arthur.

"Yeah," I said. "So?"

"...He won't be at them all, though, will he?" Caught up in the moment, he actually looked concerned about it.

"Martin," I quickly clarified, "I have zero desire to be at the rest of your dates."

Relaxing to the best of his ability and half-heartedly attempting to chuckle at himself, Martin smiled shyly. "Alright, I suppose it's a date, then. Retroactively."

"Brilliant. See, my reasoning was, I thought it'd be nice to make this our first date cause we've already overcome a relationship obstacle, the coffee's really good tonight, and plus the night's mostly over and neither of us has screwed it up. It's just getting better and better, isn't it? We're actually talking, and we're smiling now too."

"Altogether not bad points, Arthur," I praised.

"No," Martin said, surprised. "No, they're really not, are they?"

***

We left fairly soon after we'd finished our coffee and scones, though we did make Arthur laugh and wince at tales of Carolyn's stewardessing. And as I dropped them back at the airfield and Arthur got out and stretched in the light of the street lamps and the moon, the ever-unlucky Martin sat and struggled to unfasten his seat belt.

Arthur opened the door and leaned in heroically, and Martin froze, leaning back against the seat, staring up at his date. "Arthur," he finally managed. "What are you doing?"

"I'll help you, but it'll cost you."

"Cost me what?" God, he honestly didn't realize.

"A kiss, of course," Arthur said with a devious smile.

Martin gaped for a moment, then seemed to strengthen his resolve. "Alright," he agreed. "That's...er...acceptable." He paused, then quickly added, "And even if you somehow screw it up and I'm strapped to Douglas's car permanently, you can still have that kiss."

Arthur beamed. "Brilliant! Because, I was just going to say...ever since I said it was a date, I've had really high hopes. Not just about getting a kiss, but about all of it."

"Oh?" Martin was mainly very interested in Arthur Shappey's mouth, so close yet so far away. "All of what? High hopes how?"

"I think you're going to treat me just fine, Skip," Arthur said excitedly, his breath close enough for Martin to feel it on his cheek. Martin squirmed in what could only be an approving way. Arthur tapped Martin on the lip with his finger. "I think I won't be your second-choice cheeses at all, not any of them."

Martin looked up, confused. Then, they were kissing, passionately but awkwardly, and my romantic heart applauded even as I wondered at the fact this was happening in my Lexus, and Arthur finally pulled back, patient, glowing, glad. He took in Martin's dazed expression, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Oh yeah," Arthur rumbled. "Yeah, I think you'll make sure I'm your Camembert."

In the silence as Martin stared and wondered at how lucky he really was, I reached over to undo his belt. For a moment as they gazed at each other, they didn't even notice. 

I picked up my phone as they finally noticed Martin was free, as they got out and shut the car door and headed toward their respective automobiles. After all, I had news for Carolyn, didn't I? I figured I'd earned the right to steal a little of their thunder.


End file.
